Mordor 3441 S.A. - On the field of victory.

The landscape of Mordor had never looked more terrible, more soulless, and more bereft of any beauty than it had on this cold morning. Victory had been achieved, but only by uncountable sacrifice and great destruction. It was a bloody and sore dawn, and although sunlight touched the once shadowed pits of this most dreadful land, it did not succeed in chasing away all the darkness. For as the smoke rose and billowed in great, black, acrid, plumes above the victory field, those left alive mourned for the terrible losses they had endured.

One such grey elf stood out in the cold light, his tattered and stained cloak catching in the breeze and wrapping itself around his battered armour. Celeborn was not a warrior but he did fight when required. His forte was of providing wisdom and counsel to those who needed it most; his wife was the stronger in body and spirit than he. Still in times of war he took up his sword and fought bravely, like the rest of his people. He was a lord of status, and because of this was offered a higher rank than he himself believed he deserved in battle, but he never could fight as valiantly as his peers. He never had that spirit, it was not his strength, but it was Oropher's.

Celeborn exhaled a long and heavy sigh as he observed the body of his old companion. He smiled sadly to himself, acknowledging that their friendship was never one built on brotherly love or loyalty...nay it was one of necessity for the demands of courtly life in Doriath. Once they were no longer bound to serve that city neither of them really vested much interest in one another - their beliefs and passions were very different. Still, to see such a noble elf taken from this world in such a cruel and horrific manner...well it was enough to cause Celeborn to weep for the senselessness of war. Kneeling down on one knee, Celeborn closed his eyes and bowed his head respectively;

"Rest now brother, and may your spirit be rekindled soon, on those Western Shores."

Gently Celeborn outstretched his hand, and carefully closed the dead eyes of his friend for a final time. He had asked that he be the one to care for the body, for it was only right that one of his own kind should tend to him. Oropher would have not wanted his body handled by Noldor; they would not be respectful of their Doriathian customs. Celeborn lifted the King's blood stained sword, and whispered over it prayers of thanksgiving and hope for renewed life before he placed it upon the Greenwood King's chest, ensuring his hands were folded proudly over its silver hilt. Straightening up, he stepped away from the raised stones that acted as his final memorial, and placed his hand over his own heart in honour of the fallen King.

"What will happen to Greenwood now?" A quiet and timorous voice sounded behind the Sinda lord, and Celeborn straightened up to turn his stern gaze on Amroth.

"It should have fallen to Thranduil," Celeborn replied, as he glanced down in an attempt to compose his features; "Though I assume there has been no word on his whereabouts?"

"They say it is likely that he is dead," Amroth answered, an obvious sob sounding in his voice; "There was no body claimed from the battlefield...they have searched."

"Then urgent word will be sent to Greenwood by way of wing. I imagine Oropher has made up final orders as to his wishes, I assume the crown will pass to the elfling - whether Thranduil's wife will act as his regent remains to be seen. Regardless of the outcome, they remain as ever our ally's and friends...we will offer what help we can...is that understood!"

Amroth bristled slightly at the tone the mere elf lord had used with him, but he registered they were simply words of a grieved and hurting ellon. Bowing his head for the elder elf, Amroth turned his tearful gaze back to the body of the deceased King;

"I should never have goaded the Prince into acting rashly," Amroth sighed heavily and clutched his palm to his forehead; "I played on his weakness for battle, and now he is lost to us."

"He was needed Amroth, some gambles are taken in warfare - Oropher did not have to let his son go, but he knew the risks. There is enough guilt to be burdened with, your majesty, do not add more to your troubles, what is done is done." Celeborn's voice was cold, but it held an element of truth to it that did not soothe the young King, rather it gave him a sense of finality and resignation to his situation.

"Where are you going?" The forlorn looking King asked, as the elder elf spun on his heel and marched determinedly away from him.

"I must seek out Elrond, he will be deeply distressed by the passing of Gil-galad - I promised my daughter I would care for him," Celeborn replied, as he stomped off through the mess of a camp. His statement was not so much a lie rather than a careful telling of the truth. Elrond was of course devastated for the loss of one so dear to him, but Celeborn knew what distressed him most was the endurance of Sauron's ring. To Elrond's mind a complete victory had not been achieved, and he would not be comforted.

It came as no surprise to Celeborn to find the battle wearied, and greatly burdened, lord of Imladris in the depths of the healing tents. The war was over, but not for Elrond, for a war still waged in the makeshift infirmary - only it was a war for life, and the preservation of elven lives. Hanging back at an uncomfortable distance, Celeborn observed how the younger elf skilfully directed what healers he had at his disposal, and how his quick mind ascertained the needs of the victims presented to him.

"Elrond...you will exhaust yourself," Celeborn chuckled, as he strode towards the busy raven haired elf with a look of mild concern; "You should take rest."

"There will be centuries to take rest," Elrond answered diplomatically, as he graced his wife's father with a tired smile; "Right now I am needed here, and while I am fit and able to do what I can, I intend on staying here."

"Oh, I shall not argue with you my lord, for I know it does your heart good to be of use in this way," Celeborn smiled warmly, for he acknowledged that Elrond's endeavours to assist the wounded was almost cathartic for him. He could channel his grief into mending the lives of others - to at least bring a little joy; "I am only expressing the counsel my daughter would have me give you."

"I can almost hear her concern in your voice," Elrond chuckled, as he worked a herbal concoction into a paste; "You share the same compassionate countenance."

"It is probably the only thing we share," Celeborn grumbled sourly, as he picked up the sour smelling liquid and sniffed it tentatively.

"I would not ingest that if I were you," Elrond muttered, barely lifting his head from his work to give the other elf a chastising frown; "No, compassion is not all you share...insatiable curiosity would be the other familiar trait."

"Quite!" Celeborn sniffed haughtily, as he placed the bottle back on the battered desk, and eyed Elrond with an inquisitive look and pointed to the paste he smeared on clean gauze; "What is that for?"

"If you follow me I will show you," Elrond answered in a slightly patronizing tone, but Celeborn shrugged and strode after him nonetheless, he quite enjoyed learning interesting tricks from healers.

Elrond walked briskly through several tents until he reached a particularly busy pavilion, stuffed full of badly injured elves. Celeborn flinched slightly at the disturbing scenes, for it was unnatural for elves to see so much hurt and pain. He noted how some of the inhabitants were strewn on untidy lines on the floor, and he quickly registered that these elves were dying...and there was nothing that could be done. The thought caused the elf lord to stumble, and he felt a great deal of sorrow for the lives too soon to depart. But before he could think anymore of the brutality of war, his attention was drawn back to Elrond and the clearly distressed young elf he tended.

"He is not dead...I will not believe he is dead!" The fair haired ellon shrieked, bitter tears streaking his face as a younger elf attempted to hold him in place, while Elrond placed the medicated gauze to a stump of flesh that used to be his arm.

"Captain, I must insist you lie still," Elrond ordered in a soothing but authoritative voice; "This poultice will draw out any infection...if you do not lie still you risk blood poisoning."

"I am fine...I do not need your attention...please my lord Elrond...you must listen to me!" The young Silvan elf bleated weakly, as he reached for Elrond's lapel. "Please...find Thranduil...he was wounded and he needs care - you helped him before?"

"Young captain you should lie still," Celeborn interjected roughly, as he strode up to the frenzied ellon who wrestled so violently with the healers; "Lord Elrond is not at the beckon call of your every whim, if the Prince is found then there shall be experienced healers that will attend to him."

"You think he is dead!" The ellon spat, and hauled himself practically into a seated position; "I see it in your eyes, you cannot find his body so you just resign yourself to the fact that he is dead! Well I will do no such thing...I will find him myself if I must."

"Aradan!" Elrond gasped in disbelief, as the alarmingly strong elf clambered off his cot and attempted to find his footing, only to stagger dramatically; "Aradan...you have lost too much blood...your body is weak!"

"I have lost blood...I have lost an arm...I have lost much today," Aradan babbled deliriously as he hobbled across the pavilion and out into the adjoining tent, accompanied by the smaller dark haired ellon. "Come Galion...if these elves who claim to be kin to our Prince will not help us...then we will do what we must without them!"

"Aradan?" Galion queried, his voice filled with a mixture of courage and fear at the madness that swum in his superiors eyes; "Captain Aradan...this tent is for the dying."

"Then it is a good place to start searching for a Sindar prince who has been so callously forsaken by his kin!" Aradan roared viciously as he staggered about the motionless bodies, and the elves that stood over them grieving. If the captain had of been in his right mind, he would not have offered such insult, but a deep panic had set into his heart. He feared the longer Thranduil went without assistance, the more likely it would be that he would perish.

In his stupor the young captain's eyes were trained to the healers who were now wrapping lifeless bodies in sheets, and carrying them from the tent. These were the dead, and Aradan was abruptly shocked at how many there truly was. He was momentarily silenced by the grief in his heart, but it was almost like an invisible hand had gently titled his head in the direction that he now found himself looking. There he saw the remains of an elf laid out on an abandoned stretcher, his head tilted towards Aradan but most of it was covered in an ivory sheet.

Numbly, the Silvan captain crept forward and outstretched his hand timidly towards the body. He noted how the elf's left arm was a series of horrendous scars, telling of an old battle wound, and it was precisely this that had drawn him to the elf's side -for he had not seen an elven warrior sport such old scars. Peeling back the sheet, Aradan heard the cry that escaped his mouth as he dropped down by the body of his dearest friend.

"Thranduil," He cried bitterly, as his only hand wavered uselessly over the marred and hallowed face of his Prince. Aradan could not forget such scars, scars which he knew lay under that carefully constructed mask, which was now left broken and unravelled for all to see. "Thranduil...my friend...our King...come back to us, please?"

"He is breathing," Galion's shocked gasp was what broke through the captain's moment consuming sorrow. The young squire leaped over the body, and pulled the sheet back further, pressing his face close to Thranduil's slightly parted lips; "He is breathing, but barely. He is alive! Help...would someone help us?"